


Obligations

by bornofstars



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jealousy, Mild Gore, Not Canon Compliant, Padmé Amidala Lives, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23378737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bornofstars/pseuds/bornofstars
Summary: Anakin had been jealous, possessive.Vader gave those words new meaning.
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader, Padmé Amidala/Darth Vader
Comments: 30
Kudos: 149





	Obligations

It takes extraordinary effort not to flinch when cold hands encase hers. 

Padmé bows her head, bending the knee beneath her dress. She feels the distinct pressure between her shoulder blades, as though she had turned her back on a fanged beast. Above her, she hears the rasp of breathing, her nose filling with the strange electricity that surrounds the man before her. 

“Ah, Padmé.” Emperor Palpatine says, rubbing his bony thumb across her knuckle. She represses her shudder, her face fixed as though dipped in carbonite. She hadn’t thought, when she had been training to be the Queen all those decades ago, just how handy that particular trick would be. 

He calls her Padmé, for she no longer carries a title. She had still been a senator for a while, until an attempt made on her life had deemed it too dangerous for her to serve as representative to Naboo. Her place had been taken by a Grand Moff, who hailed from a different planet. 

The injustice is so callous, so blatant. Gone are the days of Palpatine’s minute manipulations, his political prowess. He can afford to be audacious now. There is no need for trickery. No need to hide. Who is there to reprimand him? To send a committee to investigate his corruption? 

Padmé would be a hinderance in the senate. Too outspoken, too wilful in office. If he had her slain, she’d become a martyr. So he kept her right here, kneeling before him with a steely mask on her face. 

  
When he really wants to irk her, he addresses her as Lady Vader. But he seems to be in good spirits tonight, - as much as a withered old Sith Lord can be, and grants Padmé a reprieve. 

“Your Majesty.” She says to the tiled ground. He pulls her from her knees,-stronger than he looks,- and gives her a grandfatherly smile. Padmé pointedly does not look too closely at his rotting teeth. 

“My dear,” He says. “I thank you for attending tonight, given the circumstances.” 

Padmé nods. A part of her would like to point out that she is a hostage of the Empire, and that regardless of _circumstances,_ Padmé had no choice in the matter of attending the Empire Day ball. 

“It’s my pleasure, Your Majesty.” Padmé replies. Her voice becomes rather monotone when she speaks to him; a mechanism she often employed when she was in office on Naboo.

“I am happy to see you." 

His gnarled hand comes to stroke across her cheek. His yellow eyes gleam like twin flames beneath his hood. He sees through her falseness just as much as she sees through his. But he loves the game, plays it far better than her. His nails dig in, a faux caress. 

“And I you.” He replies. “I’ve received word that Lord Vader is currently in orbit. I’m sorry you’ve had to attend alone.” 

“There is no apology needed, Your Majesty.” Padmé says dutifully. It’s like saying lines she’s rehearsed for a play. Palatine smiles regardless, pleased with her answer. 

“However, I must make my rounds. I thank you once more, Padmé." 

* * *

When safely away to the other side of the ballroom, she watches the party with a detached boredom. Her guards hover awkwardly around the buffet table she unintentionally lingers by. They never talk, no matter how often she tries to engage them. 

The decadence never fails to astound her, inciting sickly memories of the palace of Theed. Courtesans move as the Emperor does, hoping to pulled aside, to have the attention of the most powerful being of the galaxy. A squadron of his guards in their red armour follow silently with every step, though who would dare to attack him? 

Stormtroopers line the doorways, blasters held as though they were monitoring a room full of prisoners. Padmé notes the irony, but can’t bring herself to laugh. She takes a flute glass off of the intricate fountain behind her and takes a shallow sip. 

She knows that she’s committing a major social faux-pas by standing alone, but part of her cannot bring herself to care. Nobody would dare to say anything to a woman of her position.

Padmé’s friends are all dead, wiped out with the rise of the Empire, or killed later for ties to the Rebel Alliance. They had tried to include her; she had always been a staunch defender of the Republic, of democracy, but her position cripples her, and they all knew it. Padmé doesn't take it personally; she understands. The Rebellion will flourish without her hand in it. For the time being, it’s better off without her. 

“Senator Amidala?” 

Padmé turns at the sound of her name. Nobody has called her by that name for a long time. A man, young, dressed in his formal blacks - a Lieutenant, judging by his insignia. She sees him flinch back only slightly- Padmé and Senator Amidala are rather different people. Namely, she dons the harsh dark fashion of Imperial City now, instead of her preferred Nubian wardrobe. Tonight she looks quite severe, all in black and silver, her headpiece carved from Kyber ore. A gift from the Emperor himself, from her last Life-Day. The Lieutenant recovers quickly, however, bowing deeply. 

“Sorry,” He says. “I just thought that I’d introduce myself. Lieutenant Madia, My Lady.” 

Padmé pauses, her bland formal reply freezing on her tongue. “Is Madia a Nubian name, Lieutenant?”

He nods fervently. “Yes, My Lady. We share the same home planet.” 

His innocent enthusiasm makes her smile, despite herself. 

“It’s an honour to meet you,” She says, offering her hand. She expects a handshake, but instead he reaches forward and lays a gentle kiss on her knuckle. 

She is surprised at his audacity, but does not comment. How long has it been since she felt lips upon her skin?Most Imperials walk around her as though on egg-shells. His approach is…refreshing. 

“Likewise, Senator.” He says. “This is my first Empire Day when I’ve not been off-world.” 

Padmé raises an eyebrow, taking a sip from her flute. It feels almost like engaging with a child. “Oh, really?” 

He nods. “I was recalled for the ceremony.” Madia says. “My first time in the Imperial City, too. My Father is an Admiral.”  


Ah. That explains such a lowly officer being present amongst Coruscant’s elite. Padmé experiences a surge of pity,- a dangerous feeling to have, but she feels it none the less. She knows what it feels like to be alone, to be out of one’s depth. 

“And how are you finding the city?” Padmé asks. In all honestly the city is a monstrosity in her eyes; Her apartment overlooks the dilapidated Jedi Temple, which sears her heart each time she catches it in her sight; it’s easier to look away, close the blinds. 

She expects a typical response denoting the glory of being in the proximity of the Emperor, or how he’d much rather be on a Star Destroyer serving the Empire. Padmé glances at the ornate chrono on one of the walls. She’s barely been there an hour; she’ll have to endure until its socially acceptable to take her leave. 

“Well, it’s no Naboo.” Madia says. “Bunch of stuck-up oafs, if you don’t mind me saying so.” 

Padmé looks sharply back to the young Lieutenant before her, who seems to only just realise what he’s said, and has the grace to look bashful. Padmé wants to shake her head in wonder. Such innocence is a rarity on Coruscant. The politics of court, the social rituals and gossip make everybody jaded, careful of their words. 

When she looks at him, she looks past the uniform. He really is young, younger than her. Barely old enough to be an Ensign, but she supposes an Admiral Father would pull a few strings. His appearance is all military, but a sharp haircut and shave can’t take away the kind eyes and innocent smiles. He stirs something in Padmé’s heart, long forgotten. He is so…uncorrupted, Padmé wants to bundle him out of this pit of beasts, put him back on a shuttle to Naboo. A foolish idea, but one she cannot help. 

She smiles, and it’s almost a real grin. 

“Care for a walk, Lieutenant?” She asks. 

Madia is eager to escort her around the edges of the ballroom. Padmé feels eyes upon them both as they walk. It’s common for most of the Navy personnel to avoid Padmé, and yet, Madia seems oblivious to who she is as they converse. He makes no mention of her husband, of her reputation. Most soldiers are either too scared to speak to her, or only flood her with compliments on Lord Vader's strategies and battle-talents. 

“I joined the academy because father wanted me to,” he says. "I majored in logistics, but I always fancied my hand at politics.” 

“Politics?” Padmé asks with a laugh. She wants to tell him that with a face like his, he would have been eaten alive in the Republic Senate, but the words freeze in her mouth. He doesn’t notice her blunder, distracted as he takes his own glass from a passing droid. 

“Oh, yeah.” Madia says. They pause outside two open doors leading out to a balcony, but don’t step out. His cheeks are red, Padmé notes. Another testament to his innocence; only a fool would let themselves get tipsy in a place like this. 

“I wanted to run for Senate, but I ended up here.” He looks down at his badge, as though he had forgotten it was there. “I do enjoy serving though.” He says hastily. 

Padmé laughs. “Politics isn’t all its chalked up to be.” She sighs. “I think I spent my entire term with a permanent headache.” 

“But you were the voice of the Naboo!” Madia exclaims. “You were Queen at _fourteen!”_

Padmé looks down into the bubbling alcohol in her glass. A hysterical urge to cry makes her grip tighten around the stem. 

“Sorry,” Madia says. “I know it isn’t right to bring up the past, especially with somebody I hardly know.” He looks solemn. “Forgive me.” 

Such sincerity almost makes her eyes water. Padmé laughs it off after a moment. 

  
“A tactless move for a politician.” She agrees, smiling wider when he grins at her joke. "You'd be in contempt, Senator." 

She looks around at the ballroom. The Emperor is conversing with several members of a mid-rim delegation. The rest of the party-goers are too consumed in their evening to notice her and Madia. She glances once more at the chrono, and makes up her mind. 

“Let’s go outside.” Padmé says, nodding to the balcony. “I could use some air.” 

* * *

The guards flank the balcony doors, giving some semblance of privacy. Madia keeps a respectful distance, at ease against the railing as they talk. They speak at great length about Naboo, - the current Queen, the Grand Moff in charge. They share similar tales of childhoods in Theed, and how the architecture cannot be beaten on any other planet. Madia skirts the shadow that so often hulks over Padmé - her husband. At first, she thinks perhaps he is too frightened to speak of his superior officer, but as they speak more and more Padmé speculates that he really _does not know_ who she is married to. He had only addressed her with her Regnal name, - a name not heard in years. Most courtesans used her Imperial title, a title Padmé loathed to be referred to. Madia’s innocence is so refreshing, Padmé feels almost intoxicated by it. 

They talk a little about Madia’s service, but he assures her that there is far more bureaucracy that most expect within the Imperial Navy. Padmé wants to lament that she is very much aware of his plight. Many nights Anakin sits hunched over a datapad, but it feels like that particular imagery may ruin the flow of conversation. 

And oddly Padmé doesn’t want Madia to leave her alone. She has no desire for him, no want or lust or ulterior motive. There’s just a delightful happiness found in having a discussion with somebody so genuinely innocent. Every event is usually a parade of gossiping socialites who have a morbid fascination with the wife of Vader. She has no friends in the Empire. Perhaps she has found one. 

“Most people don’t think I’m Nubian,” Madia was saying. “And my tutor was from Coruscant, so I was labelled as a city kid all the time in the academy.” 

“Why wouldn’t they think you were Nubian?” Padmé asks, folding her arms. The air has grown slightly cold, but she doesn’t wish to retreat inside just yet. 

“My colouring,” He says, gesturing to his hair and eyes. “Too light for Naboo.” 

She hears a clank of her guards moving, hears a heave of silence from indoors. Undoubtedly the entry of some lord or Moff, judged silently for their tardiness. 

“Light coloured eyes are a rarity,” She says reassuringly. Briefly, she imagines the blue-eyed son she had dreamed of, whisked away into Obi-Wan’s arms. Remembers Anakin’s beautiful irises, gleaming by the lakeside on their wedding day. 

“Your eyes are wonderful.” She murmurs. 

Madia’s smile freezes on his face, and a moment later Padmé understands his terror. The monstrous sound of the respirator is deafening, despite the music continuing on behind them. 

Padmé does not turn, but feels that feeling between her bared shoulder blades. Like a terrible blade is about to penetrate her skin. 

Madia drops to his knee, head bowed to the floor. “Lord Vader.” He breathes, sounding faint. 

Anakin has always been tall, but his prosthetics give him a truly abominable height as he comes to stand beside her. He says nothing, and Madia shivers. Padmé feels fear for a moment, fear for the poor child dressed in military gear before them, and turns. 

He’s been away for weeks, as he often is. More than he ever was during the Clone Wars. Padmé hadn’t expected him to show his face at the ball - she knows he detests the social pomp and extravagance as much as she did. 

“My husband.” Padmé greets, bowing her head. She thinks he may ignore her too, but he inclines his head to her. 

“Padmé.” He says, his voice sonorous. Madia flinches from his position on the floor. Pity surges up in Padmé’s chest, and Vader tilts his helmeted head, noting the emotion. 

She clears her throat, hoping she hasn’t doomed the poor boy. 

“Lieutenant Madia was keeping me company.” She says when the awkward silence becomes too much to bare. “I thought you were in orbit.” 

Too late, she realises how incriminating her words sound, but Vader does not seem to notice. If he does, he does not comment. 

“Lieutenant,” He says finally. “Leave us.” 

Madia stands hastily and catches Padmé’s eye. She tries to convey an apology, but the glance is so fleeting that there’s no real chance to know if he understands. 

They stand in silence for several seconds, and Padmé crosses her arms once more as a biting breeze hits the balcony. Speeders pass by and the city around them glows neon and iridescent. 

“You hate these events.” Vader states. She flinches at the softness of his voice, the accusation beneath it. 

“The Emperor personally asked me to come.” Padmé replies, watching a swoop bike take off from a nearby building. “How was I to say no?” 

“You are tenacious when you put your mind to it.” Vader steps closer to her, looking out onto the skyline. She feels another shudder, but not from the wind. His presence used to be so warm, so full of ragged light. He smells of a battlefield and plastisteel. 

“Besides,” He continues. His helmed head turns to look down at her, and she feels the red tinted lenses appraising the side of her face. “You seemed to be having a good time.” 

Padmé feels a burst of indignation at the meaning behind his words. 

“Lieutenant Madia was perfectly harmless.” She snaps, before she can help herself. 

A gloved hand hooks under her chin, and Padmé turns unwillingly into the touch. 

  
“Do you want him?” Vader asks bluntly. Padmé casts a glance at the guards at the door, who thankfully block out curious party-goers from watching the dressing-down she’s certain she’ll receive. The hand tightens. 

  
“No.” His voice booms. “Look at _me._ ” 

Padmé stares back at her own warped reflection, the lights of Imperial city shining back at her on the surface of his helmet. 

“You think that boy would satisfy you?” Vader says. “Protect you the way I do? Touch you as I do?” 

“You’re being ridiculous.” Padmé snaps, pulling her head out of his grip. “It was a harmless conversation.”

“Ridiculous? I find my wife alone with one of my men.” Vader says menacingly. Padmé envisions Vader’s powerful hands choking the life out of Madia, in the view of the entire court. She places her hands quickly on his shoulders to placate him. 

“It wasn’t like that.” She murmurs. “I just wanted to talk to somebody. I missed you.” The words taste like ash in her mouth. 

Vader says nothing, staring at her through his lenses. She thinks of how his eyes had looked before he’d suffered his injuries on Mustafar. Had they been the same blue as Madia’s? No, they had been lighter, with less grey in them. Padmé recalls the golden sheen they had taken on when he had joined Palpatine and shudders. 

Vader mistakes the gesture. 

“You are cold.” He states. “Let us return.” 

“Don’t you need to speak with the Emperor?” Padmé asks, but her hands are shaken off and she is following behind her husband, who has to stoop to clear the arch back indoors. She lingers for a moment, and Vader’s hand shoots back and wraps firmly around her elbow. Women with their Grand Moff husbands and other military men look on her with concealed pity. Her life is a speculation, - what would it be to be a monster’s wife? Could she even perform her wifely duty? Most of them think Vader a droid, Padmé knew. The rumours she heard regarding the two of them were nothing short of astounding. Many believed he had simply formed, fully grown and in armour one day. 

They make their way out of the palace with no interruptions. Surprisingly, nobody feels quite like addressing Lord Vader as he strides across the floor, Padmé in tow. The Emperor is nowhere to be seen, and Padmé breathes a sigh of relief that she doesn’t have to go through the painful decorum of goodbyes. 

The speeder is sleek, custom designed. Vader wrenches open the passenger door for her and Padmé gulps, getting in quickly. She can almost feel the anger coming off of him in waves. She can’t imagine what he must feel like to a force user in this moment. Vader pilots them expertly through the busy air lanes, driving as recklessly as he did as a Jedi. The air between them is stretched and tense, interrupted only by his respirator. Padmé uses the time to collect herself. She knows what’s coming. If she plays her cards right, she’ll be okay. 

If being married to Anakin had taught her anything, it was not to test him when he was in one of his moods. 

Padmé’s apartment was still and silent when they arrive. 

When he’s on Coruscant, he stays with her, or at the palace. Tonight seems to be one of those nights.

Vader smoothly docks and flips off the engine, not waiting for her to get out. The lights weren’t on, the droids all powered down, so Vader instantly disappears into the darkness as Padmé hesitantly comes into her rooms. She can hear his respirator, but can’t place him in the pitch black. Thankfully, he flicks on the lights after only a moment. 

“Anakin…” Padmé says. Her hands twist in the fabric of her dress. “Please don’t be upset. We get so little time together as it is…” 

Vader turns sharply at the mention of his old name, but does not scold her. Padmé is the only person left in the galaxy who can still call him that and live. He comes forward and she wraps her arms around his bulky neck, feeling the coldness beneath his armour. 

Padmé feels a roil of sadness in her chest. How long since she has felt skin against her own? Lips on her, fingertips, nails? But her sadness is hopeless. She is Lady Vader, and her husband is not a man who can caress her or kiss her. 

“Come.” Vader says simply, taking her towards her bedroom. A shiver of anticipation runs through Padmé as she follows, her heart pounding, aching in her chest. 

He takes a seat at the end of her bed, so large and still, like a horrifying statue. 

“Strip.” 

Padmé thinks of Anakin. She recalls how he would be so careful with her clothes, so wary of such expensive fabrics. He could never imagine wasting such a commodity, feeling the silks and velvets between his fingertips in awe. Still the boy from Tatooine. As Padmé takes off her headpiece, Vader becomes impatient and stands, a large hand grabbing the fabric around her neck and ripping sharply downwards. He’s done so on several occasions, and although he has never apologised, a new dress would be delivered, more expensive and extravagant than the next. 

Padmé shivers when he rips away the last of the fabric. She’s already slipped out of her shoes, so when he lifts her out of the pool of material she is bare. He circles her for a minute, like she’s a new recruit above his flagship. 

“You are mine.” Vader says. “I have killed for you. Fought for you. I will not lose you to boys barely out of adolescence.” 

She wants to argue, to tell him that he’s out of his mind with jealousy and he’s melodramatic, but Padmé knows that it will get her nowhere. This dance is a familiar one. So instead, she nods, leaning into his touch as runs a hand through her hair. 

When he’s done looking over her, he folds his arms. 

“Get onto the bed.” 

Padmé lays down obediently. As loathe as she is to admit it, she feels arousal lurch in her stomach. Anakin and Vader are both very different in the bedroom, but she cannot say that neither never took care of her needs. 

He’s been away a long time. She’s been stuck in the city even longer. They both need this. 

His gloved hand pushes her gently in the centre of her chest, and she lays all the way back. The pads of his fingers run across her nipple and she lets out a heavy breath. He hovers over the bed, respirator a steady pendulum as he gauges every reaction. A pointless exercise, Padmé thinks. He knows her body better than she did. Slowly she loses herself to the sensation as he brushes his hand over her chest, going up to wrap around her neck. The metal hand tightens once, warningly, before turning back to a caress. 

“Oh, Anakin…” She sighs when he puts pressure on one of her nipples, resulting in a pleasant zap of pleasure, but then he’s pulling away. He turns to her dresser and pulls out the tube of lubricant, applying it to the pads of his gloves. He gently guides her legs to open and strokes over her slit, earning a gasp of shock at the coldness.

“Relax for me, Padmé.” He rumbles through his vocorder. She stares up at the ceiling as his finger enters her slowly, twisting, spreading the lubricant until her entrance is slick and ready. He stretches her with a steady, barely there pace, until she starts to move her hips into the motion, moaning quietly. He rewards her with the addition of another finger, curling up into her deeper and deeper until she cries out. 

“Can anybody else do this to you?” Vader asks, increasing his pace. “Make you come apart this way?” 

“Ah, - No,” Padmé gasps, feeling her eyes roll back into her head as he adds yet another finger, the sound of the lubricant almost embarrassingly loud in the quiet of her room. 

His other hand wraps around her neck and squeezes. Padmé’s eyes snap open to find Vader over her, watching her face intently as his other hand works her frantically. 

“Look at me.” He snaps when she starts to close her eyes. “I am the only one you have. The only one who can make you come.” 

Unwillingly, she thinks of Madia, the way shock would paint his face if he were to see her like this, gasping against Vader’s gloved hands. Vader senses her thought, pushing his hand so deep Padmé sees stars. 

“Oh, Force, I can’t-”

“You can.” Vader booms. “Say my name.” 

“Anakin!” 

“Say it properly,” Vader says. “And I will give you your release.” 

Padmé swallows around the hand wrapped around her throat. She looks up into the red lenses of her husband, tries to imagine the golden irises staring at her. 

“Vader…” She murmurs in defeat, feeling her orgasm climb and burst in her stomach, her legs clenching up around the hand between her thighs. He doesn't stop until she shivers from the sensitivity, slowly pulling his hand away.

“My Love,” Vader says, pulling back. He sits on the bed, still fully dressed. He guides her head to rest on his lap, carding a hand through her hair. “My angel.” 

“Yours.” Padmé mumbles, a blur of Anakin’s glittering blue iris’, Vader’s black impassive helm, and the Lieutenant’s frightened eyes watch her from the darkness of the room. 

* * *

  
In the morning, Padmé wakes alone. 

Presumably, Vader is needed at the palace, or is meditating in his chamber on the other side of the apartment. 

She rolls over in the bed, recalling the events of the previous night with a heavy sigh. Her thighs are still sticky and she shifts uncomfortably under her sheets. 

C3PO has delivered breakfast to her bedside. Padmé sits up in bed, checking her comm, but it’s empty. Vader hasn’t left the building, then. He’d worn her out so thoroughly that he could have left for space and she wouldn’t have woke. 

He had roused her after she had fallen asleep and pushed her onto her stomach, ripped off his cod-piece, and rutted her like an animal. 

A gleaming tray sits on her side table. Padmé yawns and pulls off the lid, before dropping it to the floor with a gasp. 

Two eyes, crystallised and sat on ice, stare at her, full of accusation. The bloody network of arteries behind them make her stomach roll. A datapad lays next to the disembodied pair of eyes, and with a shaking hand, Padmé reads the attached note. 

_Do not forget your obligations, nor who you belong to, Lady Vader._


End file.
